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From this hour, freedom! Going where I like, my own master.

Walt Whitman

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Walt Whitman
Age: 72 †
Born: 1819
Born: May 31
Died: 1892
Died: March 26
Editor
Essayist
Journalist
Novelist
Nurse
Poet
Writer
West Hills
New York
Walter Whitman
Going
Like
Master
Hour
Masters
Hours
Freedom

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Sometimes with one I love, I fill myself with rage, for fear I effuse unreturn'd love But now I think there is no unreturn'd love—the pay is certain, one way or another (I loved a certain person ardently, and my love was not return'd Yet out of that, I have written these songs.)
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And as to me, I know nothing else but miracles
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There is no object so soft but it makes a hub for the wheeled universe.
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Keep your face always toward the sunshine - and shadows will fall behind you.
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Out of the cradle endlessly rocking, Out of the mocking bird's throat, the musical shuttle, . . . . A reminiscence sing.
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As soon as histories are properly told there is no more need of romances.
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I say that democracy can never prove itself beyond cavil, until it founds and luxuriantly grows its own forms of art, poems, schools, theology, displacing all that exists, or that has been produced anywhere in the past, under opposite influences.
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I am not contain'd between my hat and boots.
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A writer can do nothing for men more necessary, satisfying, than just simply to reveal to them the infinite possibility of their own souls.
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I hate commas in the wrong places.
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We arrange our lives-even the best and boldest men and women that exist, just as much as the most limited-with reference to what society conventionally rules and makes right.
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Behold I do not give lectures or a little charity, When I give I give myself.
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Each of us inevitable Each of us limitless-each of us with his or her right upon the earth.
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I am satisfied ... I see, dance, laugh, sing.
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The wild gander leads his flock through the cool night, Ya-honk! he says, and sounds it down to me like an invitation: The pert may suppose it meaningless, but I listen closer, I find its purpose and place up there toward the November sky.
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To have great poets, there must be great audiences.
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After you have exhausted what there is in business, politics, conviviality, and so on - have found that none of these finally satisfy, or permanently wear - what remains? Nature remains.
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I open my scuttle at night and see the far-sprinkled systems, All all I see multiplied as high as I can cipher edge but the rim of the farther systems. Wider and wider they spread, expanding, always expanding, Outward and outward and forever outward.
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What beauty there is in words what a lurking curious charm in the sound some words.
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The jour printer with gray head and gaunt jaws works at his case, He turns his quid of tobacco, while his eyes blur with the manuscript.
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